


Sacrifice

by shenshen77



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Because there's clearly too little Porthos-centric fic, Could be considered Portamis if you squint, Gen, Hurt Porthos, Hurt/Comfort, POV Porthos, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 01:32:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9267722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenshen77/pseuds/shenshen77
Summary: Porthos is a self-sacrificing idiot - at least if you ask Aramis. He's also a hero - if you ask d'Artagnan.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in a while, so I apologize for any clunkiness remaining, though my friend Geckoholic did her best to beta, despite not being in the fandom. 
> 
> I fell in love with The Musketeers all over again when I finally watched Season Two last year and have wanted to write something for this show for a while. As I hunted for a plotbunny, I remembered my H/C Bingo card and that there were some perfect Musketeer prompts on there. I love Porthos to bits and found that there were unfortunately way too few fics in which he played the main role, or got hurt and taken care of :) Yes, I know, I'm easy like that. And honestly, being my fave rarely bodes well for you, I apologize in advance. Anyway, I'll stop rambling and start posting. Thanks for reading and if you're so inclined, please let me know what you thought :)
> 
> Written for the H/C Bingo square - "accept injury to protect someone"

“Porthos, no!“ Aramis yelled across the clearing.

 

Porthos felt the sword slice through his leathers, cutting his skin and splitting his upper arm. He roared with pain as the metal glanced off the bone, the sensation making his stomach roll and his ears fill with a high-pitched whine. He dropped to his knees, his muscles suddenly like jelly, unable to hold up his weight. His eyes clenched shut, and he breathed rapidly to get control over the pain, clutching his left arm with his right. The leather of his glove slowly warmed as the blood flowed through his fingers, his trembling muscles not able to exert enough pressure to stop the bleeding. He felt the cold settle deep within his bones and guessed that it must have been the snow slowly melting around him.

 

A shot rang out and the earth shook slightly as a body impacted the frozen ground next to him.

 

“Porthos!” Aramis yelled again, closer this time. Suddenly there was a hand on his uninjured arm, a solid presence at his side. “I've got you,” Aramis said breathlessly, his cheek touching Porthos' as he took his weight.

 

“How is he?” Athos asked, and for a moment Porthos wondered where he'd come from.

 

“How's d'Art?” Porthos asked through clenched teeth, the name cut off by a groan as Aramis pushed his hand away from his wound and agony swept over him.

 

D'Artagnan had been cornered by two bandits, one of them clubbing the young Musketeer in the back with a fallen branch, sending him sprawling to his knees, the wind knocked out of him. Porthos had quickly dispatched the bandit he'd been fighting with, but his sword got stuck in the man's chest. Not losing a moment trying to retrieve it, he'd sprinted across the clearing, yelling for Aramis as he saw the bandit exchange the branch for his sword again. He'd plowed into the other one with a yell, pushing him aside so he could shield d'Artagnan from the sword. If he had had more time, he might have thought to put his pauldron first, as the thick leather would have offered more protection. But in that moment he only thought to keep the young man from further harm, knowing he could do nothing else but protect him with his own body.

 

“I'm fine, Porthos. I'm fine,” d'Artagnan said, his voice trembling and then Porthos' now empty hand was gripped tight by slender fingers. “You saved me.”

 

The whining in Porthos' ears rose to a crescendo as he felt Aramis probe the wound. White spots started to dance before his still tightly closed eyes, tears slipping down his cheeks and freezing on his skin. He leaned more heavily into Aramis, swallowing hard against the roiling of his stomach. His limbs started to shake and he didn't know if it was from the cold or the pain, nor did it matter anymore. Through the ringing in his ears he could make out someone frantically calling his name. He didn't care. He'd saved d'Artagnan, that was all that mattered. He let the white light swallow him.

 

xxxxxx

 

Softly spoken words cut through the pounding in his head. Trying to discern them was too much of an effort, yet the voice was familiar, the cadence soothing. A prayer perhaps? His head hurt, every slow beat of his heart reverberating in his skull. He shifted slightly, feeling the mattress move beneath him and the weight of several blankets on top of him. It was comfortable, much more so than the frozen ground he remembered lying down on, but despite all this his mouth was dry and he felt cold, his fingers and toes nearly without feeling. Porthos shivered and his left arm, though it's tightly bound to his chest, flared with pain. He groaned, pursing dried lips, his brows drawing together in discomfort. The voice that had roused him stopped.

 

“Porthos?” it asked instead and a warm, calloused hand closed around his forearm.

 

“'Mis? That you?” Porthos said, his voice hoarse, tickling in his throat.

 

“Thank God,” Aramis said with a loud exhale and Porthos heard him shuffle beside him. “Here, drink,” Aramis said, helping Porthos rise slightly and pressing a cup to his lips.

 

He drank greedily, the pounding in his head subsiding minutely with every sip of sweet, cold water that ran down his throat. His stomach gave an unhappy lurch, but didn't protest further. The cup was removed and Porthos slowly opened his heavy eye-lids, blinking in the twilight of the unfamiliar room he found himself in.

 

“Where?” he asked, focusing bleary eyes on Aramis.

 

“We're at an inn,” Aramis explained, an exhausted smile on his lips. “You've been unconscious all night. I wasn't sure...” he hung his head. “I wasn't sure if I was fast enough, that was a really deep wound. You lost a lot of blood.”

 

“'m still here,” Porthos mumbled, lacking the strength to do more. Aramis' eyes crinkled as he smiled again, nodding. “Others?” Porthos asked as he closed his fingers around Aramis' forearm.

 

“Asleep, nothing worse than a few minor cuts and bruises. But the pup was upset, he kept saying that it was his fault. Athos gave him a good talking to, then got him royally drunk. They're sleeping it off, now,” Aramis said, shifting slightly to allow Porthos a view of the only other bed in the room.

 

Athos had his arm over d'Artagnan's shoulder, both snoring lightly. Porthos felt easier immediately.

 

“Constance woulda killed me if he'd died,” he mumbled, remembering the fight in the clearing.

 

“All of us, probably,” Aramis said, clasping Porthos' cold fingers with his own. "She is great, isn't she? Don't know what the pup did to deserve her."

 

"He's a good kid." Porthos shivered again, exhaustion pulling on his lids.

 

“He is, you're right. You should sleep some more,” Aramis said, his other hand cupping Porthos' cheek.

 

“'m cold,” Porthos said, his teeth starting to chatter as he rolled onto his side, drawing his knees up to preserve heat. Everything hurt now and he just wanted to make himself as small as possible.

 

“Give me a moment,” Aramis said softly, retrieving his hand from Porthos' grasp.

 

His eyes falling shut, Porthos heard some rustling, then the covers were lifted behind him and the mattress dipped. A moment later he felt Aramis pressed against his back, his skin warm as his arm snaked around Porthos' side.

 

“Sleep now, big hero. I've got you,” Aramis whispered, his breath ghosting across Porthos' neck.

 

The heat of his friend's body spread into his limbs, the shivering subsiding slowly, making way for warmth and the knowledge that he was cherished.

 


End file.
